


Throw Like Pollock

by LynnLarsh



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: All That Jazz My Dudes, Established Relationship, Like... I hope you guys signed up for the softest and warmest pile of fluff you can stomach, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Moving In Together, also, but mostly just fluff, enjoy, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 09:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11575218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: The sputtering pause and adorable look of confused shock on Lance’s face would have been enough.  But the way that shock begins to slowly morph into hope and excitement and eventually unprecedented glee makes the possible loss of their deposit worth it.





	Throw Like Pollock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> Couple of things.
> 
> Firstly, I've been listening to Lewis Del Mar's Painting (Masterpiece) pretty much on repeat while writing this, so here you go:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBAVhgrb6I8
> 
> Secondly, I'm half Mexican and used quite a bit of inspiration for Lance's love of color from family and friends who lived in Mexico, El Paso TX, and Miami. So if what I've implied doesn't work for a Cuban heritage, please let me know and I'll make some much needed adjustments.
> 
> But to be honest, this was mostly just my way of embodying what I love most about owning your own place and/or sharing a home with someone. Not just in the financial sense, but in the "decorative" sense. In my ideal fantasy, living with someone I love, we paint each room a different color. And while I might be projecting, with the right person to urge him on, I think Lance might feel the same. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you're in the market for some fluff, my dudes! Enjoy!

_So throw like Pollock, fuck the apartment. Oh, paint it like you've always dreamed it'd be. If you want it, you can have it, every color that you see, see, see._ -Painting (Masterpiece) by Lewis Del Mar

 

“Shiro! You have to come and see this!”

The voice echoes from somewhere towards he back of the apartment. It’s a giddy outburst of excitement that Shiro feels himself responding to without hesitation, legs carrying him towards Lance as if on preconditioned autopilot. When he finds his boyfriend, it’s in their soon to be guest room, a faded, blue stuffed cat clutched firmly to his chest.

“The last residents must have left him behind for us. Isn’t he cute? I’m gonna name him Blue!”

Despite the undeniable cuteness of the spectacle, Shiro can’t help but frown, eyeing the stuffed animal’s weathered fur and slightly protruding right eye. “You know, this is the sort of thing that gets couples killed in horror movies right?”

With an overdramatic gasp Shiro has grown overly familiar with (and possibly a little fond of), Lance clasps both hands over the plush’s ears. “How dare you insult our baby! You keep those blasphemous words to yourself, mister!”

The exaggerated pout and the mischievous look in Lance’s eyes do Shiro in. They always do. So, taking care to offer Blue a soft and heartfelt apology on the way, Shiro steps in close and places a teasing kiss right on that jutted out bottom lip of his.

“You can’t just kiss away your transgressions, you know,” Lance mumbles, refusing to drop the pout. So Shiro kisses it again, this time taking Lance’s lip between his teeth and pulling just so. As expected, Lance gasps softly, façade crumbling the more Shiro lures him in, releasing his bottom lip to kiss him more fully on the mouth. When Lance’s hold on the little toy cat gives way, the plush bouncing off of Shiro’s feet and a few inches across the floor, he considers the mission a success. Even as Lance breathes out a quiet, “Cheater…” against his lips. 

He can practically taste the word on his own tongue, Lance pressed firmly against every inch of his chest, his waist. He wants nothing more than to spread Lance out right here, make him breathe every word into Shiro’s lungs, let loose every moan into Shiro’s mouth. Problem is, they won’t have a bed until tomorrow. So Shiro pulls back a bit, letting Lance bury his face into Shiro’s shoulder, Lance’s arms coming to wrap around to Shiro’s back in a way that could be described as clinging.

“You can keep Blue,” Shiro murmurs into Lance’s hair after a moment, content to simply continue cradling him in his arms. “But if it turns out she’s possessed by the spirit of a dead tenant, we’re burning her in the fire pit out back.”

As if a switch has flipped, Lance pulls away from Shiro’s chest with a grin almost too big for his face. “The complex has a fire pit?” He beams, nearly bouncing in place even as his arms never leave Shiro’s back. It’s impossible not to chuckle at the level of over abundant cuteness, so Shiro smiles and laughs, offering his excitable boyfriend an affirmative.

“God, Shiro…” Lance sighs, face-planting right back into Shiro’s chest with a muffled but undeniably excited squeal. “This place is seriously almost perfect.”

“I know, we really lucked-” Shiro starts to say before the words really register. When they do, he pauses, clearing his throat in confusion. “Wait. _Almost_ perfect?”

“Well yeah,” Lance sighs, and thankfully, when he finally pulls back enough for Shiro to see his face, it’s not one filled with disappointment. Or worse, Lance’s feigned happiness Shiro has learned over time to recognize and pick apart. 

No, this happiness is real, a contentment that Shiro had been hoping for (and let down by) at every open house until this one. It appears Lance’s appreciation for their new home hasn’t dwindled, so then why-?

“The walls are white.”

“The… walls?” Shiro blinks, caught off guard. 

A light blush begins to spread across Lance’s cheeks as he shrugs. “Yeah, you know. The walls. I’m just more used to color I guess, I don’t know. White walls just feel a bit… impersonal.”

The embarrassed uncertainty isn’t unfamiliar to Shiro, but that makes it no less endearing, his hands tightening around Lance’s waist on instinct. But before Shiro can say much of anything in response, Lance barrels over him with a fresh wave of dismissive rambling.

“I know, I know. We can’t paint the walls or anything because the apartment is a lease, and I don’t even know why I brought it up, I mean. This place is perfect because it’s ours and walls shouldn’t matter, so they _don’t_ matter, really. I was just thinking of how nice it would be if the walls were a little warmer, like yellows or maybe even shades of green, but we can’t so I don’t know why I’m still-”

“How about we paint them anyway?”

The sputtering pause and adorable look of confused shock on Lance’s face would have been enough. But the way that shock begins to slowly morph into hope and excitement and eventually unprecedented glee makes the possible loss of their deposit worth it.

“Really, Shiro? Really?” 

Shiro nods, looking around at the bare walls of their guest room. “Down the road, when we move into an actual house, we’ll just paint over it. I’m sure it’ll be-”

The rest of his sentence is abruptly cut short by the feel of smiling lips pressing firm and unapologetic against his own. The kiss is hurried by Lance’s enthusiasm but no less deep, no less intimate. When they pull away, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are practically shining.

“You really mean it?” Lance asks, voice softer than the eagerness clearly bubbling beneath his skin. Giving Shiro a final out, it would seem. So Shiro just shrugs, hugging Lance back to his chest.

“What’s a little paint if it means getting to make you smile like that?”

Shiro feels the snort more than hears it, Lance’s shoulders shaking against him in a quiet chuckle. “You cheeseball.”

No more than an hour later, they find themselves roaming the aisles of the local paint supply store. And Shiro finds himself pushing a cart now filled to the brim with eight different colored cans of paint.

“Which do you think will make a better accent wall against the Forest Green?” Lance asks, holding up two color pallets. “Evening Burgundy or Gentleman’s Grey?”

“Uh…” Shiro leans forward as if that will help him decide, but honestly, he has no idea what he’s looking at. Lance seems to have a color scheme in mind for every room, sometimes broken up by accent walls, other times by windows or molding. Shiro just assumed they’d be painting everything one color. Thankfully, and as has been the norm for this venture, Lance makes a decision before Shiro has to admit his own defeat.

“I think the Evening Burgundy will pop better, don’t you?”

And the eight cans of paint become nine.

“Lance,” Shiro follows as they embark upon another set of color pallets for the kitchen. “Do we really need so many different colors?”

“If we’re going to be painting the walls,” Lance states matter-of-factly. “We’re going to be doing it right.”

“But don’t people usually just… I don’t know, go for one or two?”

“Maybe novices do!” With a flourish, Lance puts down the color pallets and begins to paint a picture in the air in front of him, arms gesturing at the empty space between them. “You should have seen my abuelita’s house in Cuba. Even the outside door was a different color, a bright red to stand out against the yellow of the front. And inside? It was like every room had its own personality, and the colors were the foundation of that.” His voice softens and warms a bit as he shifts gears. “You saw a little bit of that when I took you to visit my family in Miami. For as long as I can remember, every room in the house has been different. When I was old enough to have my own room, it came with a paint brush. My room, my own color. I guess I just want us to have our own colors too.”

Shiro thinks back to that visit, standing in Lance’s bedroom, the walls a soft, inviting blue. His heart warms at the memory, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips in what feels like acceptance.

“We still have the kitchen and the master bathroom left, right?” Shiro asks, watching with fond amusement as Lance’s enthusiasm resumes full force.

It’s with eleven paint cans and only seven hours left before nightfall that they finally arrive back at the apartment. With the movers dropping off the rest of their furniture the next day, they both opt for painting the living room first. That way they’ll have somewhere to pile the biggest of the furniture while they paint the smaller rooms.

After laying out the tarp and taping up the moldings, Shiro hikes up his sleeves and grabs a paint roller. Three walls of the living room are going to be painted a bluish green the pallet had called Teal Ocean, the accent wall a grey tone called Silver Song. Ridiculous names aside, Shiro decides to start there. Before he can even dip his roller in paint, however, Lance steps in front of him, hands on his hips. He’s using a neon pink headband to keep his bangs back and wearing a muscle tee with the words “Started From The Closet Now We’re Queer” written across the chest in purple, pink, and blue. It’s adorable and very Lance, especially when paired with his expression.

“What are you doing?” Lance asks, an eyebrow raised in a way that seems almost chastising. Shiro puts the dry roller to the floor and leans against the long handle. 

“Painting the accent wall.”

“Not like _that_ you’re not,” Lance clicks his tongue, pushing past Shiro to grab two brushes from the bucket in the corner. He pushes one into Shiro’s chest and proceeds to dip his own in the grey paint. “You’ve gotta have a little fun with it, Shiro. That’s, like, half the process.” And then, without further ado, Lance paints a giant heart on the wall, finishing it off with an overly flourished “L + S” in the center. 

It’s as adorable as he is, but Shiro can’t help awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck instead of joining in, because… Well… “We’re not just leaving it like that though, are we?”

“What?” Lance balks, looking absolutely affronted. “Hell no! Who do you think we are, heathens? We put a little personal touch, have a little fun, and then paint over it. No one else will know it’s there, but we will.” He’s grinning bright and proud, a smile that only grows when Shiro relents, dips his own brush in the paint, and draws a really, _really_ awful smiley face that’s obviously meant to be a cartoonish version of Lance.

“Like that?” Shiro says, smirking. Lance blushes, punching him in the shoulder and subsequently smearing paint across a part of his arm and his prosthetic.

“You jerk!” He starts to say, but then his face falls into something a bit more sheepish once he notices. “Oh. Whoops. Sorry, Shiro.”

“Mhmm?” Shiro hums, looking from his arm to Lance and watching the look of trepidation bleed into his expression. Without a word, Shiro reaches down to dip a finger into the paint.

“Shiro?” Lance clears his throat. “Think about what you’re doing. I have a ridiculous amount of siblings. Do you really wanna start this fight?” But the waver in his voice is evident, so Shiro continues to approach, wet paint brush in one hand and paint dipped finger of his other outstretched towards Lance’s face. Lance takes a step back, but he’s too close to the wall, no escape. “Wait, wait, wait-!” Lance squeaks, closing his eyes tight when Shiro gets undeniably close. Shiro just smirks, hardly unconvinced, and leans in to draw a grey line down the length of Lance’s nose.

There’s a brief pause as Lance stills, cautiously opens his eyes, and looks cross-eyed down to the line of grey. “That’s it?” He asks as his eyes flick back up to Shiro. 

Shiro just shrugs, still smirking, and says, “Yup. That’s it.” Then proceeds to drag his paint brush across Lance’s exposed collarbone and shoulder, the thin strap of his muscle tank caught in the fray. Lance jumps, though whether in surprise or at the chill of the paint, it’s hard to tell. Either way, it leaves Shiro laughing, a hearty sound that he feels vibrate all the way across his own chest.

“Oh, it’s on,” Lance tries to scowl, but Shiro can see the ghost of a smile trying to break through. He doesn’t get to dwell on it for long, though, because Lance jumps into his own vengeance with surprising vigor and haste.

By the end of it, Shiro’s shirt is ruined, Lance looks more grey than tan, and they barely have enough left to paint the accent wall. 

“We’re not even going to finish this room tonight, are we?” Shiro half laughs, half pants against Lance’s neck, still pressing him into the hardwood floor where their fight finally fizzled. Lance just shrugs, equally as breathless.

“Not with that attitude we aren’t.”

“What if I’d rather just stay here?” Shiro hums against the grey-speckled bronze of Lance’s skin, settling himself more completely against the lithe body beneath him. If they weren’t pressed so close, he might have missed the shudder that wracks through Lance, a soft gasp crawling up his throat and reaching Shiro’s ears like a call to duty.

“Then we _really_ won’t finish the living room by tonight.”

“Mmm doesn’t seem like a bad trade off, you know?” Shiro continues to murmur against sweat salted and paint slicked patches of Lance’s neck. His loose clothes have rumpled, revealing more of that beautiful brown skin he’s become so addicted to.

Lance arches against him, hips grinding up for a blissfully heady moment before rolling back down, his chest heaving. “W-We haven’t painted a single wall yet, Shiro.”

Shrio just responds to the movement with one of his own, a hand dragging down from arm to hip to waist before finally inching beneath Lance to cup the side of his ass. “I painted you, does that count?”

Lance snorts, but even that sounds breathy, a little fractured by the way his throat clicks on a swallow. “Sh-Shiro…” It’s obvious the name is supposed to be chiding, but the way it comes out as more of a whine, the way Lance turns his head just a bit to offer more of his neck, is a delicious contradiction. So Shiro reaches between them to gently, teasingly skim against the waistband of Lance’s shorts.

“Maybe the painting can wait,” Shiro purrs, dipping his tongue out to lick a quick stripe from collarbone to shoulder, teeth nipping inch for inch in its wake just above a line of grey. “Doesn’t this,” he reaches between them further to cup the growing bulge between Lance’s legs. “Seem like a more… gratifying use of our time?” Lance bucks up into the touch instantly, his eyes rolling back as his mouth falls open on a whine.

But that whine morphs quickly into a breathy chuckle, Lance’s eyes fluttering back open just as his right leg locks behind Shiro’s knees. In a sudden and surprisingly effective motion, Lance has them flipped, Shiro falling to his back against the floor with a surprised grunt. Before he can properly react, however, Lance dives in to capture his mouth in a heated kiss, tongue delving deep without warning.

Shiro melts into it almost instinctually, the feel of Lance on top of him, grinding against him, now almost as familiar as breathing. He can read Lance’s arousal almost as clearly as his own, and right now, it’s practically a tangible force. Lance’s hands tangle in Shiro’s hair, his hips creating steady, consistent friction with each needy roll of his hips.

Which is why it’s such a surprise when Lance pulls back, sitting up to straddle Shiro’s hips as he splays his hands out across Shiro’s chest. Both of them are panting, obviously hard, but Lance just sits there catching his breath, completely motionless.

“You’re right, Shiro,” Lance says after a moment, voice still a bit low and husky. Match that with the way Lance’s eyes are heavy lidded, blown wide, and Shiro can practically feel more blood rushing south. “This would be more gratifying.” 

Something about the way he says that sounds off, though. Not so much the tone of his voice as the way it leaves the smirking shape of his parted lips. So he shouldn’t be surprised when Lance stretches his arms over his head in the perfect display of nonchalance.

“If you want the first thing we christen in this apartment to be a tarp on the living room floor.”

Shiro blinks, completely flabbergasted by the sudden one-eighty the situation has taken. Honestly, if it weren’t for the feel of Lance’s erection still digging into his thigh, he’d believe Lance was thoroughly uninterested in what they’d just been doing.

He really, really must want to get these walls painted.

“Fiiiiiiiine,” Shiro groans, not even bothering to mask his own petulance as he lets his head fall back to the floor with a thunk. “Painting walls instead of sex it is. But the moment that bed is set up tomorrow, your ass is mine. Movers be damned.”

“Hmmm,” Lance grins, leaning in to steal one more frustratingly hot kiss before pulling himself to his feet. “I was thinking more, finish the living room, maybe the kitchen, and then make the first thing we christen in this apartment the air mattress I already set up in our new bedroom. But whatever. You do you.”

Shiro doesn’t get out much in the way of a comeback to that, but he does manage to give Lance’s ass a nice swat the moment he’s back on his feet.

Surprisingly, they manage to get the entire living room, kitchen, and half the guest room done before they call it quits. Unfortunately, they’re both too tired to christen much of anything after that.

The apartment ends up taking two weeks to be finished, filled every inch with the colors Lance chose out. _Their_ colors. And with their furniture set up, boxes of knickknacks and art unpacked, it’s exactly as Lance had described it. Each room with its own personality, the paint on the walls a definite foundation of that. A sturdy and heartfelt foundation. Shiro has to admit, it feels like them.

“Alright, last step,” Lance declares once their hectic few weeks of painting, unpacking, and decorating are supposedly complete. It’s because of this that Shiro can’t quite help the wince.

“There’s more?” 

Thankfully, Lance just laughs, seemingly unperturbed. “It’s an easy step, but the best one. And I’ve already done most of the work for you, so all I need is your hand.”

And as if that’s explanation enough, Lance grabs Shiro by the wrist and leads him into the living room without preamble. Shiro has to admit, with all the walls and moldings painted, it really does look cozy. Lance even managed to pair the decorative pillows on the couch. It’s like a scene from a Pottery Barn catalogue, and yet, somehow, already lived in, already home.

“Okay, go ahead. Pick your color.”

Shiro pulls himself back to the task at hand only to find himself faced with multiple tubes of different colored paint, a few paint brushes, and an empty place on the wall marked by lines of pencil. At the top of the empty square lies a frame hook.

“What am I doing exactly?” He asks, but Lance just rolls his eyes.

“I picked blue, so you can’t choose that one, but pick any other color. Then I’ll explain.”

“O…kay?” Shiro looks from Lance back to the rainbow of paints and grabs the black one. Lance snorts, snatching the tube from his hand and popping it open.

“You would,” he smirks as he squeezes a fair amount onto a paper plate next to the makeshift work station. Then, without further ado, he grabs Shiro’s hand, readies a paint brush, and proceeds to paint streaks of black along Shiro’s skin. Shiro can’t help but jolt under the cold and frankly bizarre sensation, but after a few seconds he settles in. And when he does, the pieces start to fall into place.

Once Shiro’s whole palm is black, Lance lets go with an eager, “Alright, just pick a spot in the square and go, anywhere you want. Middle, corner, whatever.”

Shiro smiles, chuckling softly to himself at the way Lance’s eyes shine, his enthusiasm contagious. After a moment’s deliberation, Shiro decides on a spot just off center, fingers splayed wide.

“Interesting choice,” Lance nods, fingers to his chin as if analyzing a piece of fine art at the MoMA. Shortly after, however, he’s right back in the moment, shoving his own hand in Shiro’s direction. “Alright, now do me.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro laughs, gently gathering Lance’s hand in his own. A dollop of blue paint and a few strokes of his brush later and Lance’s palm is primed and ready. “Go for it.”

Expectedly, Lance takes longer to decide where to put his print, even going so far as to carefully hold his hand above potential spaces first. Eventually, he settles on a slightly diagonal approach, settling his print right over Shiro’s. Almost like they’re holding hands.

“Now we’ve just gotta sign it,” Lance instructs, plucking the blue dipped brush from Shiro’s hand and scribbling his name in one corner. Shiro follows suit, opting for the corner across, and then takes a step back to admire their work.

“Perfect,” Shiro smiles, leaning in to kiss Lance on the cheek. Before he can, however, Lance bounces out of the way, reaching over to the couch where he’s stashed something else.

“Not just yet,” he says, pulling out a dark, wooden frame and hanging it on the wall, the handprints nestled perfectly within its edges. “There,” Lance nods, inching his way into Shiro’s space and tucking himself easily into his side. “Now it’s perfect.”

And it is. A perfect finishing touch to what has been a perfect project. This apartment, this home is theirs now, plain and simple, each room an undeniable testament to that.

For a moment, Shiro feels overwhelmed at the realization. A perfect home, nestled in warm colors and warmer company. A perfect home made perfect not by what’s in it, but by who’s in it. 

_It’s not the handprints that make this home perfect, it’s you,_ Shrio could say. _It’s not the colorful walls and the decorative pillows, it’s the fact that you thought to put it all there._

 _You’re what makes this all perfect,_ he could admit. _You’re what makes this place home._

But if the way Lance snuggles into his side is any indication, the relentless, adorable, over dramatic love of Shiro’s life probably knows all that already.

So.

“Cheeseball,” Shiro whispers instead, placing a kiss into Lance’s hair as he wraps an arm around his shoulders, careful not to get black paint on his shirt. “But you’re right. It’s perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope it left your day a little more... colorful.


End file.
